


Dynamics

by whiskeyandnight



Series: The Way the World Ends [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Alcohol, F/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Revised Version, Sexual Content, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-12 01:02:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3338294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandnight/pseuds/whiskeyandnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes only 10 hours for everything to change completely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! If you recognize this fic, that's because it's an old one of mine that's I've just re-written! Updates on Mondays!

He isn't in denial.

He has no reason to be, Benny tells himself almost every time he hears about how _the Courier did this_ and _the Courier did that_.

He'd sent a bullet straight into that _unrelated_ woman's head at point-blank, he'd watched her body crumple down instantly to the dirt, watched her chest heave with her last futile breaths as her life quickly slipped out of her grasp. He'd watched as the grumbling Khans rolled her _lifeless_ body into the small pocket of ground they'd bitterly carved out and shoveled dirt back into that shallow grave, until the only signs of disturbance in the sad little hilltop graveyard were Benny's many stomped-out cigarettes and the freshly turned dirt that hid her body.

He watched her _die_ , goddamnit. There are so many couriers, it's got to be a different one. There's just _no way_ …

No, he isn't in denial.

It is, ultimately, his own fault that he has chosen not to heed the warnings that have been brought to him almost every damn day, almost as though they've been gift-wrapped just for him. He's so adamant that she's dead, that he _murdered_ her in the name of political gain, that he has disregarded any evidence to the contrary. He surrounds himself instead with comfort and lies and ignorance, to the point where he almost manages to push all thoughts of her to the very back of his mind, to the lowest of his list of concerns.

So, nearly two months month later, when he has to do a double-take as she strides towards him in the middle of the damn casino floor, he is, naturally, a little surprised. A _lot_ surprised.

As far as he's concerned, just-saw-a-fucking- _ghost_ surprised.

"What in the goddamn?" he blurts under his breath – his thought-to-mouth filter short-circuits and goes bye-bye for a moment in his shock. His guards' heads all snap towards his direction, set on alert at the uncommonly bewildered tone that colors the head Chairman's outburst. Their gazes quickly land on the figure standing before Benny, and their hands falter almost as soon as they start to reach for their hidden firearms. The threat is not _at all_ what they expect.

The woman wears a simple red dress – hardly fitting attire to hide anything more than maybe a knife or a pistol – with her hair pulled back into a messy bun, though a good portion of the thick, inky locks manage to spill out anyway. Her face still holds trace amounts of baby fat. She looks clean, young, small, and – most importantly – completely harmless.

So why the hell is Benny gaping at her like that?

She crosses her arms and cocks a bored brow at him, though Benny can _feel_ the barely concealed amusement at his momentary distress radiating from her. He senses the proximity of his four guards as they slowly begin to close in on him, curious and wary, and his brain finally catches up with him. He immediately signals for them to stop, not wanting them too close when he has no idea what the _hell_ was about to happen.

The two of them simply stand and stare at each other, neither daring to make the first move. It goes on for what Benny thinks is too long, to the point where he has to stop himself from fidgeting and he can barely stand it anymore because he's _certain_ that all eyes are on them.

(In the back of mind, he reasons that exactly zero of the chattering and gambling patrons care about their little interaction – guilt, however, breeds paranoia, and he is nothing if not riddled with various forms of guilt.)

When she opens her mouth to finally break the silence, though, Benny immediately holds up a hand to stop her. Since she hasn't outright attacked him or gone screaming through the Tops about him, Benny at least has enough common sense to know that that whatever she _is_ going to say, he doesn't want _anyone_ to hear – not even his guards. To his surprise, her mouth obediently snaps shut. He thinks that maybe she is just as curious to see how this will end as he is, though she is clearly far more entertained by the whole situation.

He thanks whatever divine entity is watching over him when he's able to slap together the bare bones of a plan to get her out of the public eye as _soon_ as possible.

"Let's keep this in the groove, hey?" he whispers to her, almost (though he would never admit it) pleadingly. "Smooth moves, smooth…"

Her expression shifts to one of confusion, brow furrowing just the slightest bit, and he suspects that the typical Chairman lingo that he's grown so used to is pretty much lost on what he can only assume are non-Vegas ears. He rolls his eyes and takes a gamble, throwing his arms wide open for her. Her amusement falls away as she immediately flinches back and watches him with fierce caution.

"Hello!" he says at a normal volume, slapping on the widest smile he can muster. "That _broad_ everyone saw go in the Lucky 38, that was _you_?"

_The Courier_ – truth be told, he still doesn't know her name – eyes him warily, and rightly so, he thinks. He sure as shit wouldn't trust himself if he were in her shoes. Still, at the small, twitching gestures of invitation that his fingers make, she carefully takes baby steps towards him, suspicion never leaving her eyes for a moment. When she's close enough, Benny quickly embraces her and squeezes tightly. He wonders, as she begins to panic and squirm and fight in his grip, if he could just snap her spine through sheer brute force and be done with it – she's so small, after all, and feels so fragile in his grip. He legitimately thinks he could do it.

Maybe later.

Right now, he needs to get her to _not_ make a scene. He leans his head down and sharply hisses, " _Quit it_. You and me are just old pals catching up. Laugh, smile, and try not to look like you want to kill me."

She freezes up, and he can almost hear the cogs whirring in the damaged brain he must have left her with as she processes this situation they've put themselves in. Before the _hug_ can go on for too long to be considered normal, she finally goes slack in his arms in another mildly surprising instance of compliance. To the few patrons that have turned to look at them, and even to his bodyguards, it does indeed look like a simple reunion between fond, old friends.

That's _far_ from the truth, of course, but they don't need to know that.

Then, she slowly brings her arms up to wrap around his shoulders. She locks onto him hard, with a borderline-vice grip on his neck that makes him suppress a shiver, and stands up on the tips of her toes to reach his ear.

"What if that's _exactly_ what I came here to do?" the Courier asks softly. "It'd settle the score, after all." Her words have no real bite to them – not yet, at least. Benny swallows loudly pulls back and holds her at arm's length, trying to read her face as best as he can. _I'll play along_ , her eyes tell him, _for now_. He lets out a loud laugh that manages to sound only a _little bit_ forced.

"Baby, you haven't changed a bit!"

She watches him curiously for a moment, and her gaze is far too calculating for his liking. He can already tell that this is going to be extremely difficult if he doesn't get her away from the entire damn casino _pronto_ , but he has to be subtle. It's bad enough that her simply being here and talking to him has undoubtedly been noticed by keen and watchful eyes, but he can at least make sure that not even his fellow Chairmen know about the Courier's true connection to him. He just can't risk it.

After what seems like an uncomfortably long time, she returns his grin with one of her own. It doesn't quite reach her eyes. They have a spark in them that makes him a bit uneasy, though he can't tell why that was.

"I _know_!" she laughs. "Vegas is just so _mind-blowing ,_ I'm amazed that I've managed to keep myself going for this long!"

He can't help the slight wince at the tackily over-emphasized phrase, the true meaning of which stands out only to the two of them – a fact that only makes him more paranoid, because _what if someone catches on_. He gets that she's pissed, but she doesn't need to be such a damn _bitch_ about it.

"Apparently not!" he says with a tight smile that's all teeth and an even tighter grip on her waist, nails digging into the stiff fabric ever so slightly in warning.

"It's so lovely here!" she continues, and the sugariness of her tone was almost sickening. He hates it. "Much better than that _graveyard_ of a wasteland out there, wouldn't you say, Ben-man? Can't believe you'd just _leave me all alone out there_ while you were here sitting pretty!" The Courier flashes a cheeky grin over his shoulder, towards his guards that have only gotten more confused by the turn of events. "This guy, am I right? Can't believe he never invited me!"

"Hey, hey!" Benny interrupts with a nervous laugh, glancing around again at the oblivious and disinterested patrons. He looks back down at the woman who is smiling at him so sweetly, but her eyes betray her. He sees the fiery excitement of a challenge, and he knows that they need to go _now_ before she tries to fuck everything up for him – no doubt she'd do it with the same stupid grin on her lips, he thinks. "How's about you and me go catch up somewhere more private-like, dollface? Just the two of us?"

"Oh, I'd just _love_ that," the Courier gushes, and he nearly feels his stomach drop when the fire in her eyes seems to burn brighter. He had planned to make up a story for her about the importance of the platinum chip, to write it off as something smaller than it really is, intimidate her or bribe her or whatever he had to do to make sure she was under his control. She'd gone down without much of a fight the first time, so he figured she'd be just as docile this time.

But, Benny realizes as her eyes burn holes through his skull, there is something more to her now, something that hadn't been there when he'd _killed_ her. Something dangerous. Something that he suspects won't bode well for him if he were to let her go at all…

He puts his arm around the Courier's small shoulders, tucks her against his side, and turns around to face his guards. The poor bastards look lost as hell in the conversation, uncertain as to what they should do, and for once Benny is thankful for that. They look to him for guidance.

"Boys," Benny tells them with a plastered-on smile, "I'm going to be with this lovely little lady up in the presidential suite, which is all hers until I say otherwise."

His guards nod slowly, glancing between him and the strange woman, putting all sorts of pieces together. Granted, it's the wrong imaginary puzzle they're solving, but he lets them come to their own conclusions for the time being.

Benny slips the key to the suite in the Courier's hand. "Here you go, doll. You can head on up right now, and I'll meet you in a minute."

He decides that, while she's away from him, he'll spin some story for his guards and have them waiting to ambush her as soon as they're done with their _chatting_ and he's out the door. After all, now that he's home, he has people to do his dirty work for him that wouldn't argue with him every step of the goddamn way, and he can spin this so that it looks a little less political than it really is.

He'll go back to his plans to take Vegas, life will resume as it normally had, and no one will be the wiser.


	2. Chapter 2

Except that isn't what happens at all.

The Courier talks quickly and sweetly, molding her body to Benny's side and gazing up at him with wide eyes as she confesses that she's _never_ _been to the Tops before, why not have the big guy himself escort me?_

The way she clings to him and looks at him like he hung the fucking moon in the sky makes his guards send him obscene looks. He tries to make excuses, tries to silently convey that he _really needs a minute away from this crazy broad_ , but his fucking guards have never been good at detecting subtleties. He appreciated it before, but now it's proving to be _very_ frustrating. Before Benny can get another word out they're all walking away, leaving Benny and his _lovely little lady_ to their _alone time_.

One of the guards waggles his eyebrows at Benny as he passes by. Benny wants to deck him.

The Courier tugs him along by the arm, and he goes along with her without another word, inwardly cursing the thick-headedness of his guards. He gently and silently pulls her in the direction of the elevator reserved specifically for the presidential suite, smiling along with his fake smile and acting like nothing is out of the ordinary as he presses the call button with a sharp jab of his finger.

Both of their faces fall as soon as the metal elevator doors close. She immediately lets go of him and nearly pushes him so she can step as far away as the cramped space will let her, all pretenses having been dropped under the shroud of privacy. He almost expects for her to jump him immediately, and the expectation makes him tense up in preparation for a brawl.

She does nothing of the sort, however.

In fact, she acts like he isn't even there at all, like she _isn't_ standing all alone in a small metal box suspended precariously by rusted cables with the man who tried to kill her.

It irks him a little, if he's honest with himself. To be so blatantly ignored by this woman, who doesn't even seem remotely bothered by their uncomfortably close vicinity ( _uncomfortable_ relative to his own ideal distance from her, which was supposed to be _miles_ from the Strip as she rotted away in the fucking _ground_ ) while he is so incredibly uncertain of what the _hell_ he's going to do about her – well, it's _fucking annoying_ , to put it lightly. Hell, she'd _toyed_ with him down on the casino floor.

Benny shakes his head slightly, dismissing the thoughts as soon as they come. Not only does he not give a _damn_ about the Courier, he tells himself, but he refuses to accept defeat now. He just has to focus on thinking faster than her to regain his footing, find some way to turn the tables back into his favor.

He wonders if she is doing the same. His paranoia rises for a second before he quashes it right back the fuck down. His thoughts drift to their destination, the presidential suite, which draws closer and closer to them with every _ding_ of the elevator as it steadily climbs up the floors of the Tops.

This is _his_ domain, damn it. _He_ has the advantage here, not her.

What does he know that she doesn't? Well, for starters, the Courier doesn't know is that the large suite often doubles as a conference room of sorts, where the Chairmen are able to work out supply deals with various merchants for meats, vegetables, alcohol, linens, medical supplies, and other living and operating essentials, because Mr. House stopped giving the Families much in terms of supplies as soon as they got the casinos running. After they started bringing in profit and the NCR made their happy way over, House switched to giving the Families a predetermined amount of caps each month to get what they needed to run casinos on their own. Said he wanted them to be more _"civilized"_ by _"negotiating for themselves"_ , wanted them to _"learn how to work with budgets for maximum profit"_. A load of brahmin shit that had been, but if it meant Benny got to be the head of the Chairmen and live the good life on the Strip, he figured could deal.

And what the Courier _really_ doesn't know is that sometimes the Chairmen use some creative… _persuasive_ techniques when merchants aren't feeling particularly _cooperative_. It is, admittedly, something that they'd learned from the Omertas, and one of the _only_ things that they'll admit learning from the Omertas, but it proves time and time again to be pretty damn effective. It brings in the caps, though, and so long as the people being hustled are kept in the dark about this little strategy, House doesn't care. Easy-peasy, everyone wins.

 _Especially_ Benny.

As soon as the elevator doors open, Benny is out and striding down the corridor, trying not to look to eager and not bothering to check behind him to see if the Courier is following. He knows she is, even if her footfalls are nearly silent on the worn carpet. When he reaches the double doors to the suite, he turns around and makes a sweeping motion for her to utilize the key he'd given her.

"I'll let you do the honors, doll," he says, to which she responds only with a small, sharp smile and a hum.

Once they're in the large room – she's careful to keep him neither ahead of nor behind her, and he realizes that she's just as paranoid as he is – he sets his sights on the bar, tucked away in the corner past the pool tables. Behind the bar, hidden inconspicuously amongst a multitude of drinks, fruits, glasses, and other mixing ingredients and tools, is a small, locked metal box, just a bit larger than a carton of cigarettes, which holds an array of chems. Some (such as jet, buffout, and Mentats) are used by request of the guest, but there are also small vials in there that the Chairmen use whenever they feel they need to _loosen up_ the minds of stubborn merchants.

Ant nectar, the Omertas had learned back in their tribal days, has a fantastic effect on the afflicted, if you knew how to use it right; it inhibits their cognitive abilities at a far more rapid and effective rate than alcohol (though for negotiating purposes, they tend to slip it into drinks anyway). Unfortunately, as the Chairmen quickly and unpleasantly discovered, it also possesses a side effect that increases the overall orneriness of the affected and can make them _a lot_ more prone to violence if a single one wrong move is made. It's almost like interacting with a living, breathing, thinking minefield, for shit's sake.

 _Fire_ ant nectar, however, as they'd learned from the Followers of the Apocalypse, doesn't have that nasty side effect. The peculiarity of the difference is not above them, but none of them care enough to wonder why; it serves the purpose they need it to, and that's that. The only problem is that fire ant nectar is a lot harder to collect than regular ant nectar, for obvious reasons, so the Chairmen only use it when they _really_ need to get something to go their way.

For example, getting some undead broad to spill the beans on whatever she knows and then go back to whatever hell Benny tried to send her to in the first place.

"Can I get you a drink?" he asks, already sliding behind the bar. The Courier gives yet another small hum, this time of agreement. Or at least, that's what Benny thinks it is. He doesn't really care; she's getting a drink whether she likes it or not, apparent silent treatment be damned. He subtly reaches down under the bar and unlocks the metal box, setting a vial of the nectar down and out of sight before he begins setting up normal ingredients.

She doesn't join him. Instead, she chooses to wander slowly around the large room, occasionally touching varnished surfaces or fragile canvases that have survived the war, feeling the textures of the pool table, the walls, anything. Aside from the fact that she's just _touching_ everything, which bothers him for a reason he doesn't care to discern, her deviation suits him just fine. Every second where her attention isn't on him is precious, and if it means that she leaves grimy fingerprint reminders of her presence behind, he can deal with it.

"I've got a few questions," he says without preamble.

She makes a sound that he thinks is a laugh. "Likewise."

"First things first," he draws out the last syllable as he examines the label of a bottle with disinterest, "how the _fuck_ is it that you're still up and walking?"

"I know a good doctor," the Courier drawls. She strokes the leaves of a few potted plants to see if they're real or just old polyester and plastic.

"In Goodsprings? I don't believe that."

"The proof is standing before your very eyes; I'd start believing if I were you."

"Must be a damn miracle worker."

"He's a _very_ good doctor." She glances over her shoulder at him with a dark, teasing smile. "Or maybe you're just not as good at this as you think you are."

"Right. I'm gonna go with miracle worker and leave it at that."

"Naturally."

He doesn't know what the fuck that means, but he takes offence anyway.

"Ain't that thing a beauty?" he comments offhandedly, nodding up at the large, glittering chandelier that's suspended the center of the room. The Courier cocks her head at him before she follows his gaze.

"It is," she breathes, in genuine awe. Benny grabs the small vial and silently pops it open over the glass, pouring the nectar in as fast as he can. By the time she's looking at him again, he's putting the regular finishing touches on the drink.

"Yeah, it was actually in pretty decent condition when we moved into the place, but we made it even prettier," he say, glancing back up at the chandelier in faux-pride. He gestures for her to sit at one of the high stools when she finally drifts near, and bumps the glass towards her in offering. "We polish it up real good on a regular basis, replace the bulbs every now and then. Really adds to the classy feel of the place."

She simply nods as she takes the glass and holds it delicately, examining it with a critical eye. When she takes a small sniff, she raises a brow.

"Smells interesting. What is it?"

"That, baby," he winks, "is a Chairmen secret."

She hums, wholly unimpressed with his attempted charm, and brings the glass to her lips. Benny tries not to watch too eagerly, occupying himself with the 'challenge' of choosing a drink for himself. She tilts the glass so slowly that he almost wants to shout at her to just _drink_ the goddamn thing, already. He has shit to do, after all.

He nearly groans when she pulls the glass away from her lips with a small frown, without even taking a sip.

"There's beer in this, isn't there?" she asks.

"Uh. Yeah."

"Mmm." Her frown deepens and she starts tapping her fingernails thoughtfully against the glass. "I'm afraid I've never really been much of a beer person."

He just stares at her, and the only sounds coming from him are the small noises of him attempting to say something before giving up each time, mouth opening and closing stupidly as he tries to come up with a response. He's temporarily at a loss for words, not because the situation is so unfounded, but because he's amazing at how fucking _annoying_ she is. Eventually, he just gives up with a shrug and looks back down at the bottle in his hand.

"Give it a shot?" he suggests lamely.

She just shakes her head. "I've given it plenty. Would you mind if I made something myself?" she asks, and she has the gall to act all sheepish about it, but he's certain that she doesn't mean it and _yes he most certainly does mind._ He's becoming more and more convinced that her only purpose in life is to make his own life a living hell.

"I'm sure you could tell me the name and I'd be able to make it for you," Benny tries, but it isn't without a sharp sigh. That's one vial down the fucking drain. "Shoulda asked what you wanted. Pick your poison."

She arches a brow at him. "Whiskey sour?"

Fuck.

"I, uh," he forces himself to look apologetic and shrugs again, "can't say that I know that one, doll. Something else?"

"It's really simple," she assures him. "Here, I can show you."

She comes around to the other side of the bar before he can offer protest. He's barely able to slide the box full of chems into hiding as she begins rifling through the shelves and mini-fridge. She puts a variety of items onto the counter, including whiskey, barrel cactus fruits, sugar, and water. She mixes the juices from the fruit in with the sugar and water to create a sour-sweet mixture, which is then poured into a glass that she tops off with whiskey. Not only is the drink so simple that she _easily_ could have just told him how to make it, but she also leaves him to make his own. The bitch.

The Courier takes an indulgent sip from her glass and sighs. "Perfect."

Benny broods as he fixes up a glass for himself, mimicking what he'd watched the Courier do. He doesn't do all that great of a job at hiding his sulking. He knocks back a mouthful of the drink so fast that he can barely taste it and thinks about how much he just wants to shoot her or punch her or _something_ and be _done_ with it. It's pure agony for him to play nice with a woman who means so little to him, who should _be dead_ , and he has to keep reminding himself that he can't get rid of her just yet because _she knows something, she knows something, she knows something –_ the mantra plays over and over in his head until he calms down again. He has to squeeze every last bit of information out of her, ant nectar or no.

"So," he starts again once the desire for _murder_ leaves the forefront of his mind, "a doc brings you back from the dead, and - what? You instantly decide you gotta come sniffing after me like a dog?"

"That just about sums it up. You took my package and tried to kill me, what else would you expect me to do?"

"Not… not this, I'll be honest." He laughs. "That's dedication, baby."

"I'm _very_ serious about my job."

"Oh, believe me, it shows. So, how exactly did you manage track me down? Walk me through the process." He asks both out of sheer curiosity (because _damn_ if she isn't determined, he can admire that at the very least) and the potential danger that could come from her pursuit of him. He needs to know who all she talked to, who saw her, if she told them about him and, if so, _what_ she said; all of these things are crucial, because if _one_ wrong person catches wind of what he's doing...

"Well," she sighs in a way that makes him feel like he's in for an earful, "you say I'm a _dog_ ; I say it's _far_ too easy to ask around for who saw the guy in the obvious checkered jacket. From Goodsprings to Primm to Novac to Boulder to Vegas, _someone_ knew where you'd gone. All they need is a little bit of talking, a little bit of favor, and a little bit of patience, and they'll tell you what you want."

"Diplomacy and bribery. Go figure," Benny comments with no real interest into his glass. And then, with no real subtlety, "Did you tell any of them about the chip?"

"Words have a certain ineffable power to them. They can really do wonders when you want something to go your way," she agrees, and he wonders if he's imagining the bite in her voice. He definitely doesn't imagine the way her eyes then narrow knowingly at him. "And I just told them you took the package I was supposed to deliver."

"Nothing more?"

"Nothing more."

He doesn't quite believe her, but he has no choice until he can slip something else into her drink. The last thing he needs is more loose ends left to be tied. The Courier is enough as it is.

"After that, all it took was being on Jessup's good side and I found out everything I needed to know about you. I'll admit that I took my time once I knew for sure that you wouldn't likely to leave the safety of Vegas anytime soon, but it was probably the most critical piece of information I'd gotten from anyone."

Benny scowls at the memory of the strung-up Khan with the piss-poor attitude. "Fucking Jessup…"

"Don't blame him for your mistakes," she scolds. "Honestly, if you're trying to run an operation that you want to keep under wraps, it stands to reason that you'd at least _pay off_ the few damn people you choose to involve. Like I said, Ben-man," she raises a coy brow at him, flashes the smallest of shit-eating grins, "I don't think you're very good at this."

He grinds his teeth so hard she can probably hear it, his hands curling into fists so tight that the calloused skin on his knuckles turns white. "And who the fuck are _you_ to criticize the way I handle my business? Do I really need to remind you that _you're_ the one who got put six feet under?"

"Well, it was more like two feet, really, and look at how that worked out for you. Sloppy work all around, if you ask me. I may be just a lowly courier, but everything that could have gone wrong for you that night _did_ go wrong, because you _let_ it go wrong." She looks up with hooded eyes and drops her voice, "Almost like you _wanted_ me to survive."

"Fuck you," he spits. "You weren't supposed to survive. You wouldn't have at all if it hadn't been for your damn miracle worker."

"What would or wouldn't have happened doesn't matter," she says. "I'm here now, whether you like it or not."

"Trust me, baby, I don't like it at all."

He feels Maria, a heavy and comforting weight concealed in a holster under his jacket, and considers that he could just end it, right now. So what if she still has her wits about her, Benny knows he can handle a young, unassuming, fucking _baby-faced_ courier. He's killed bigger, stronger, _far_ more dangerous people than her with his bare hands – the Courier, with her small frame and her damaged brain, would be _nothing_ compared to Benny.

This has already gone on longer than he had ever intended and hasn't gone at all how he wanted, and he is neither a patient man nor a good loser. Fuck the presentation, fuck the subtleties, fuck the _game_. He's done playing.

His hand twitches to reach inside his jacket.

"Oh, that's right," she says softly, suddenly, interrupting both his train of thought and his movement. When he looks up, she's swirling the remainder of the drink in her glass, watching it thoughtfully. "I did forget to mention one thing… about how I'm still alive and all…"

"Oh?" he asks, thankful that his voice isn't shaking with the adrenaline that has begun pumping through his system. He's too busy considering the chance of being stabbed or something, somehow, if he were to vault over the counter now and wrap his fingers around her throat and _squeeze_ like his life depended on it. He still doesn't know if she managed to smuggle a concealed weapon in past the front desk. He knows it's possible, and honestly, she has every reason to be packing. "And what's that?"

She looks up at him and meets his gaze, and the fire is back, and it is very much _alive_ , blazing so fiercely that he has to stop himself from taking an involuntary step back to get away from her. He scolds himself yet again for letting himself be scared of this _girl_ , this _Courier_. There's a small whisper in the intuitive part of his brain telling him that he does indeed have a great deal of reason to fear her, but the voice isn't loud enough to overcome the noise that is his determination.

"The miracle worker certainly played a major part in my survival, but he can't take all of the credit." Compared to the wildfire in her eyes, her voice is stone cold, completely lacking in the innocent, friendly – and unbelievably smug – tone that she'd been using up until this point. "A Securitron was the one to pull me out of that grave, Benny."


	3. Chapter 3

Benny freezes, his brain short-circuiting for the second time that night, racing with so many thoughts that the damn whole thing just crashes.

Externally, he's staring blankly at the Courier, and it's just weird enough that she undoubtedly knows something is amiss. Internally, he's filled with a sense of horror and cold dread, which seems to permeate through to his very bones. His heart pounds in his ears, every _thump thump thump_ beating so heavy and loud that he feels like the sound swells and echoes into the whole room, voicing his panic for the whole world to hear.

His hand hovers over the lapel of his jacket, frozen in its path. The Courier lazily shifts her gaze from the drink in her hand to him, eyes flickering quickly to where his hand is reaching. He hears her breath catch. There's a strange look in her eyes now, the flame dying down just the slightest bit as soon as she realizes exactly what he's reaching for. She's seen him do it before, after all. Her body tenses up, ever so slightly. She's trying not to let it show, much like how he is trying not to let his own fear show, but they both see through each other enough to know.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you," she tells him quietly. Her voice is strained, and if it were anyone less perceptive than he, the tension could be missed.

Benny shakes himself out of his frozen state and wills his hand to move, making it look like it's doing _anything_ but what it had obviously been doing. He settles for straightening his black tie and offers no excuse.

He finds himself right back at square one. He can't kill her yet, but he also can't scare her away, not when she clearly knows far more than she should, more than even _he_ does. Seeking to gain more time to gather his wits, he opts for grabbing his glass and chugging the remainder of the drink while watching the Courier intently out of the corner of his eye. She visibly relaxes, but says nothing. She only watches him with curiosity.

"So," he starts with a rasp, clearing the slight burn from his throat and setting the glass back down. It hits the counter harder than he intends it to. The sound makes her flinch, a minute motion that he nearly misses. "House was on to me from word _go_?"

The Courier opens her mouth, pauses, and closes it again. She settles, instead, for a small shrug. "You could say that, yes."

His head falls with a heavy _thump_ on the bar's counter, between his braced forearms.

"I thought I was being so clever…," he mumbles to himself, uncaring of the Courier's presence as he wallows in the rush of self-pity that sweeps over him.

His thoughts go to the plan that he's spent months on end engineering and preparing for. To Yes Man, the Securitron he has hidden away up in his room, and how fucking _lucky_ he'd been to have nabbed the robot. To the amount of time and persuasion it'd taken to get that Followers woman to repair the casing and reprogram the AI to suit his needs. To the subsequent period that, once everything was in place, was spent just sitting around, _waiting_ for things to finally kick off. It'd all been so much of Benny having to be _patient_ , and patient he had been.

The Courier's stool creaks slightly as she shifts her weight. He turns his head and sees that she's standing up now, walking around to join him behind the bar, where he watches her begin grabbing and examining bottles.

"What do you think you're doing?" he snaps. He's feeling especially and increasingly irritable the more he thinks about all of the goddamn _time_ that's been wasted over the past few months. He's certain that House has been laughing to himself at Benny's expense the whole time, up in his secret fucking tower with all of his secret fucking plans.

"What does it look like?" she shoots back, pulling their empty glasses over towards her. "I'm making more drinks. God knows we both need it."

He scoffs, but makes no argument as he lets his head fall back down to rest on the counter. She certainly isn't _wrong_ , after all.

Neither of them says anything as the Courier goes about her business. He listens to the sounds of her shuffling around, to the _clink clink clink_ of the bottles and glasses being moved against each other, and to the smooth flowing sound of liquid being poured. When a citrus-like scent wafts towards him, he knows she's squeezing at the barrel cactus fruits again, juicing them into the glasses like he'd seen her do before. Every now and then he feels the flared-out skirt of her dress unintentionally brushing against his suit pants as she moves around.

The setting would actually be pretty relaxing if he wasn't getting so fucking _pissed_.

Benny uses these few precious moments to – once more – re-strategize. He doesn't know what the hell is going on anymore, completely thrown for one too many loops today.

There's a solid _thud_ when she sets a glass down next to him. He turns his head to look at it, considering whether or not he wants to be completely hammered for the remainder of the evening.

"Quit sulking, Benny," the Courier tells him. She's perched back on her bar stool, with a drink nearly identical to the one she's given him slotted in her hand. He grimaces and decides that yes, once he's done getting what he needs to know from her and has finally _ended_ her, he's going to get fucking sloshed. He stands, grabbing the glass and taking a deep gulp. He drinks it so fast that he can hardly tell if it's a different drink or not, but it's the least of his concerns right now.

"Honestly, this can't come as a surprise to you," she continues. Benny glares at her as he walks out from behind the bar, taking the glass with him. He starts frustratedly pacing alongside the wall, murmuring indistinguishable words to himself as he considers _what the hell his next move is going to be._

Who the _fuck_ does she think she is? Here he is with the person that has essentially set the whole game into motion – the game that he thought, as he'd told her back in the graveyard on the night it'd all started, he had rigged in his favor. She was the spark that had lit the fuse, all by carrying a simple package.

But the Courier was supposed to leave the game on that night, two month ago. Hell, she wasn't even supposed to earn a ridiculous name like ' _the Courier'_. That night was meant to be the end to her short time at the table, a forced fold that she couldn't come back from. She wasn't supposed to _rejoin_ , and she definitely wasn't supposed to end up _here_ , on _his_ turf, telling him that his hand has been showing the whole time and that he's already _lost_.

"You," he waves a finger at her in warning as he turns his back to her, "you shut your mouth."

"I mean, this is _House_ we're talking about, after all, did you really think-"

"I said shut your _fucking_ mouth!" he roars.

The Courier jumps when his nearly empty glass goes flying past her head and shatters violently against the wall, leaving a dark, angry splatter of a stain on the wallpaper. She whips her head back towards him and watches him fiercely, angrily, but he doesn't care.

"You don't know _shit_ ," he growls as he begins to pace again. "I was so _careful_. I took every precaution I could, didn't tell a _soul_ until the very end, I even had one of his goddamn-"

He freezes mid-sentence and snaps his big mouth shut before he accidentally reveals to her what has essentially been his ace in the hole like a fucking _idiot_.

That's probably exactly what House wants, he realizes. That's what the Courier is here for.

"One of his… what?" she prompts anyway, too curious to not prod at this dangerous territory. Benny sucks in a deep breath and slowly reaches into his jacket, to the holster that's strapped across his chest underneath, and wraps his fingers around Maria's grip. He pulls her out, almost in a daze, and looks over the etchings and designs that intricately cover her barrel, and the detailed picture of the woman painted on the clean and smooth pearl of the grip, where the tips of his fingers meet. She's a beautiful tool of destruction.

"That's why you're here, ain't it, doll," he says, carefully quiet. He turns around to face her; she's standing up now, and has taken tentative steps towards him. Her body is coiled tight in response to his wild show of anger. She looks ready to jump him. "You're not just here for revenge, you're here to get the proof and get rid of me, for the chip. House sent you himself, didn't he?"

He slowly stalks towards her, and he knows that he has to be setting off all sorts of red flags in her head, practically oozing _threat_ and _danger_.

"You both get what you want and I bite the big one, two birds with one stone. How _fucking_ convenient."

He feels himself beginning to shake slightly with the adrenaline rush that accompanies his anger, a sensation that he hasn't felt with such intensity since the end of his tribal days, when he'd ruthlessly killed Bingo and turned the Boot Riders in the Chairmen. This anger is what keeps the remaining Chairmen in line, what they remember any time they even _consider_ directly opposing Benny. It's what keeps him at the head of the Family, and the control he manages to exert over his volatile side is what fuels his power, because he loses it so rarely that the few times he does strikes _fear_ in his fellow Chairmen.

He's losing it right now.

"H-he did send me, yes," she confesses, almost in a whisper. Her voice shakes and she lets out a small involuntary sound when her eyes fall on Maria, tightly gripped in his hand. She backs away from him until her back hits the edge of the bar, which she reaches back to cling to with both hands.

Benny smiles darkly and lifts the gun to aim – not without a sense of déjà vu – at the woman's forehead.

"You're not gonna have brains to spare once I'm done with you," he hisses. "Not this time." The click of the safety punctuates the statement and the Courier flinches, far more noticeably than she has all night. For the first time since she stormed her way back into his life, her composure and control is withering. Benny can't help but bask in his newfound leverage.

"House is going to come after you if you kill me," she warns him, but her eyes, wide and filled with utter terror, are trained only on Maria. "He'll know."

"House ain't gonna do that, because House wouldn't wanna cause a _scene_ ," he retorts, baring his teeth on the last word. "It's why things are going to _shit_ with the Families. The fucker never _does_ anything. Especially not for some fucking smug _broad_ who thinks that she can just waltz on in like she owns the goddamn place!"

He's closing in on her, leaning right up against her body as he shifts Maria to press up under the Courier's chin. He uses the leverage to forcibly tilt her head up and make her look him in the eye. He's close enough now that he can feel and hear her increasingly fast and panicked breathing; she looks like she has a war of her own going on inside her head, between being completely terrified and maintaining some sort of control. His anger quickly turns into a dark sort of satisfaction.

"He will for the chip. Just like you," she breathes. When Benny sneers at her and digs Maria deeper into the Courier's skin, she quickly adds, "That's why I would have come to you, anyways. Regardless of House wanting me to, and regardless of what you did to me."

He frowns. "The fuck are you talking about?"

"I never told you why it took so long to come to you," she says, the words spilling out faster the more he presses the gun to her. "Even with House's orders."

"I never cared to know the answer," he retorts, even though it's not entirely true. "I still don't."

"It's because I was thinking-"

"Oh? I'll bet that's hard to do with an egg as scrambled as yours," he jokes, and the scowl she gives him might have burned a hole through his face if he wasn't the one holding the gun.

"You'd be surprised," she says through her teeth, and then the scowl melts away. "But I was thinking about what I'd do once I found you."

"Kill me, I'd imagine. That's what I would do."

"I wanted to," she admits, swallowing hard when he digs the barrel of his gun in a little more, just to spook her. The metal probably burns her skin with the memory of what it had done to her, or at least he hopes it does. "Oh, I wanted to."

"But…?" he says, drawing the word out. There's always a _but_.

"But I see opportunity," she concludes. "I see an opportunity that could change the Mojave."

"Is that so?"

"Yes. That's why I wanted to come here, to meet you, to _talk_ to you. I have questions of my own for you, too."

"Oh, I'm sure you do."

"Will you indulge me?" she ventures.

He considers it. He really considers it. He doesn't know why, but he can't really find a reason why he can't satisfy her curiosities before he blows her brains out for good. He nods slowly, head feeling cloudy. Regret over the drinks he's shared with her washes over him; he thinks he's already feeling the effects. Should have just made his own damn fancy drink.

"What did you want to know about?"

"You. The chip. What does it do? Why is it so _important_ to you two?"

" _That's_ none of your fucking business, doll," he snarls, but he can't help but add, "It's just worth a lot, let's leave it at that. Next question."

"You _made_ it my business when you _killed me_ for it," she snaps, and he's a little impressed with how much bite she still has even while she's standing at the wrong end of the gun that already killed her once before. "Do you really think I'd believe that it wasn't part of something big after that?"

"You don't know what you're getting into, little Courier," he says, but he lets Maria just barely fall away from her skin in a silent prompt for her to continue, no longer digging in but still aimed and ready to fire at a moment's notice. He doesn't miss the flash of hope and _relief_ in her eyes.

"Whatever that chip does, whatever it's for, you wanted it _bad_ ," she continues. Her voice begins to slowly steady out and sound more confident the more she talks. "And then House called for me as soon as I stepped onto the Strip, and let me _see him_ , let me _stay_ in the Lucky 38, let me _bring others in_. Things that haven't been done anytime, _ever_. All because he wanted the platinum chip."

"So?" Benny says. "What do you care?"

"Why do I care? Why do _I_ care?" she hisses, boldly pushing him off of her with a strong shove. He lets her, but doesn't hesitate to raise his aim again, to remind her that _he_ is still the one in charge. "Because so far, two people have gone through and _used_ me to get that _fucking_ chip. Because I want to know what it does that's _so damn important_ that I almost _died_ for it, and then…

"I want _in_."

Benny's aim falters. He expected her to say many things, but that was not one of them. Like, at all.

"You want _in_?" he repeats incredulously.

"Yes."

"With _me_?"

"Yes," the Courier affirms.

He watches her carefully for a moment before slackening his arm and letting it drop completely to rest at his side. She weakly brings her hand up to her chest and gently clutches the air over her heart and lets out a sharp exhale of relief, sharper than she probably intended, if the resulting look on her face is anything to go by.

"How do I know I can trust you?" he asks, as if he hadn't been trying to slip something into her drink not ten minutes ago.

"Given the short history we've had, I like to believe that I'm the more trustworthy of the two of us. I can help you, Benny. You just need to tell me what the game is."

"Forgive me for being a little skeptical about your intentions with me."

" _My_ intentions with _you?_ " She laughs. "You're the one going around shooting couriers in the head over platinum chips. If anything, _you're_ the shifty character in this operation. _I_ shouldn't trust _you_."

They simply stare at each other for a long, long time, in the thickest tension Benny has _ever_ been in. He's thinking hard, considering her once more, but for the first time, he sees her as an asset rather than as a liability. He thinks about her connection to House, and how he might be able to adjust his plan to work around the fact the House knows what he's been trying to do. He thinks about her exclusive access to the Lucky 38, and the trust that House had clearly placed in her. He can still make things _work_ , if he's able to grab the Courier for himself now.

" _Do_ you trust me?"

"Not at all."

As he watches her patiently give him time to consider her offer, Benny notices that, aside from the obvious wariness, caution, and the traces of fear that still colors her features, he has absolutely no idea what's going on in that crazy little head of hers.

"Then we're even." Benny makes a show of flicking Maria's safety back on and sliding her back into his holster as he takes a step back. The Courier's eyes don't leave his hand until it reappears empty from inside his checkered jacket. She leans forward, off of the bar, relishing in the distance he's put between them. Her expression is decidedly blank when she meets his gaze again.

He gives her one of his most charming grins.

"How's about you make us to more of them drinks, dollface? We can discuss business, sans the bullshit. As _partners_."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SEMI-SMUT ALERT. Also, I've decided to change the remaining updates for this fic to Mondays. My other ones are set for Wednesdays and Fridays, so it kind of makes more sense to do it this way.

He isn't quite sure how they got here. Well, he _knows_ , but he sure as hell doesn't understand exactly why he hasn't put a stop to it yet. He _definitely_ never saw it coming, not in a million years. It's got to be just about the strangest goddamn thing that has ever happened to him, he knows that much.

It isn't until they're in the middle of rolling around in his sheets that Benny starts to wonder how exactly he'd gotten from _Point A_ to _Point C_. Which, all things considered, is a _really_ inopportune time to start questioning the direction of his peculiar life choices.

The sudden, unexpected clarity and train of thought cause him to take pause, and the rhythmic rutting motion of his hips stutters to a near halt. He just needs a minute, needs to breathe fresh air that isn't filled with the thick, honeyed haze that they're surrounded by, needs to _think_ …

The Courier is having none of that, however, and gives a frustrated noise at the loss, seizing the chance to bodily push him off of her and flip their positions. She straddles his waist fast – before he can even make a sound or even form a thought in protest – and keeps herself hovered _just_ far enough over him to prevent contact, yet close enough for the warm promise to irritate him.

And _oh_ , does it irritate him.

"What a surprise," she sighs, flashing him a wry smirk. She leans forward to dig her nails into his pectorals. He lets out a noise that's a mix between a hiss and a moan at the sting of pleasured pain it causes. Watching him try to hold in the reaction only serves makes her dig in _harder_ , to the point where she's nearly drawing blood, and _fuck_ if that doesn't turn him on. "You can't even finish the job. Seems to be a recurring problem of yours, ey Ben-man?"

"Low blow, pussycat," he breathes, only to cut himself off with a loud groan that forces its way out as she sinks down onto him before he can deliver whatever snarky remark he had ready. The motion turns the thought to mush and pushes all other coherent thoughts to the far corners of his mind for the time being. He drifts back into the haze without a fight. He can forget his concerns while they're like this.

She's a more… dominating fuck than Benny is used to, that's for damn sure. The girls at Gomorrah – who he'd stopped seeing some time ago, for no other reason than to spite Nero and Big Sal – were always so submissive and unenthused and doped-up, and the random tourist women that happened to catch his eye as they gambled were always so willing to let him do whatever he wanted with them. The Courier, however, yields very little control to him, as he's quickly learning. It's… actually an exciting change, though he'll never admit it out loud; he finds himself more turned on by her assertive nature than he would ever have expected. He doesn't know how to feel about it.

When she leans forward to grab his wrists and pin them above his head, she gets close enough for him to whisper words of filth into her ear, mindless sounds that have no real rhyme or reason and quickly get lost in the haze they've created. Whether her subsequent whines are because of their tandem movements that slowly become more desperate or his words or both, he doesn't know, but they sound so _good_ that he doesn't care.

His gaze shifts from the Courier's glistening body – there's actually some muscle packed onto her, he's learned, far more than he'd expected – to her face, hovering inches above his. He's taken aback by the intensity that consumes the sliver of her irises that pupils haven't covered in their lustful dilation, which seem to glow when they're hit _just right_ by the one light that they've been kept on in the room. Her dark, inky hair has fallen into a thick curtain around the sides of her face, contrasting against and further emphasizing the green glow of her eyes.

She watches him so closely, eyelids fluttering every time she drops down onto him, and with such fervor that he can't stand to look for too long. He doesn't know why. To spare himself from that fiery gaze, Benny strains his neck up as much as he could and attempts to capture her lips with his own. She mercifully meets him halfway and just like that they're locked in their first kiss. The kiss is surprisingly sweet and tender, so unlike the aggressive nipping and biting that they've been doing up until this point, so unlike the bruising and restraining grips they have on each other. It's another practice that Benny typically doesn't bother with in bed, but the smooth slide of her lips on his own, the way the Courier firmly yet gently sucks on his lower lip, and even the occasional _clack_ of their teeth hitting against each other pairs so well with the pleasure he's feeling that he really isn't complaining. Especially when it helps him to – no, not hide, _avoid_ , it helps him to _avoid_ her heated gaze.

The level at which she unnerves him is almost disturbing, because no one person has ever made him feel so… _preyed upon_.

And yet… Benny senses something _familiar_ in the Courier, something that he knows exists within himself that tells him they're one and the same. She has an air about her that tells his instincts she has the ability to be _dangerous_ and _ruthless_ , just like him. _Predatory_.

That, perhaps, is the most unnerving part of all.

 

* * *

 

He doesn't go to sleep. His coherent thoughts come back to him slowly, almost unwelcome in the way they slither back to cut through the pleasant post-coitus haze he's basking in. The thoughts return whether he likes it or not, however, and he is left sleepless as he once more finds himself trying to piece together how exactly he'd ended up in bed with the Courier. He needs to figure out what his _Point B_ had been.

He remembers talking to her for hours after they'd reached their tentative agreement, about the minor, almost insignificant details of how she'd walked down the path he'd taken in his return to Vegas and the specifics of the things she'd had to do in order to track him down. At some point, she'd pulled out his silver lighter with a small, taunting grin and told him that Jessup had instructed her to _"shove it up his ass"_ on the Khans' behalf _._

(Thankfully, she'd only tossed it to him with a sharp laugh after he'd warily asked if she intended to follow through with Jessup's instructions.)

And after that… after that they'd talked about his plans and…

Benny frowns slightly at the memory. He'd ended up telling the Courier far more than he had ever meant to, shared truths that were meant to be withheld until he could gauge her intentions better. At some point in the night, she'd asked if she could take the platinum chip back, saying that it would help to appease House and make him think that all was right in Vegas once more. And Benny… Benny had _told_ her – much to his own dismay – that he didn't have it on him, the platinum chip was up in his room and he wasn't so keen on letting go of it quite yet. She'd coaxed it out of him so gently, and he'd fallen for her patient and understanding charms so _easily_. He considers himself lucky that he hadn't mentioned a damn thing about the Fort, but it was still entirely unlike him to be so _forthcoming_ with such delicate information, and he was _smarter_ than that, damn it. So why…

His entire body goes rigid when the answer hits him like a loaded power fist to the face.

That bitch.

She fucking used his own dirty trick against him.

His mind races a mile a minute as he tries to think of a moment where she might have had the opportunity to slip the ant nectar into his drink. It had to have been when he wasn't looking, but… he'd finished his first drink without ever turning his back to her.

But then… then she'd made him _another_ drink, Benny remembers bitterly. He'd been so upset over learning that House had been on to his plot the whole damn time that he'd let his guard down, he'd let her make him something _unsupervised_. Somehow she must have snuck the nectar into his drink – but she didn't have the key to the box the vials were held in, so how did she open it? And when she did, how did he not notice? He frustratedly runs through the possibilities, desperately trying to find the moment that fucked him over… but none of them add up.

Still, he _knows_ that it had to have been the nectar, because he _refuses_ to believe that he would be so careless otherwise.

And then, he remembers. The very first drink of the night, the one he'd made for her that had so quickly been rejected. There had been a vial's worth of the nectar in that drink. Benny had never noticed when that glass had mysteriously gone missing after the Courier had made him his second drink, he'd been too swept up in self-pity and then blind rage to pay attention to anything but himself. It's only _now,_ when he finally has his wits about him, that he realizes his mistake.

That smooth-talking, quick-thinking, sneaky little _bitch_.

Beneath his sudden desire to turn in the bed and _throttle_ her to show her that he won't be fucked with like that again, he can't help but feel a distinct sense of appreciation. She'd managed to pull the wool over his eyes and had acted like it was nothing, manipulated him so _thoroughly_ that it'd taken _hours_ for him to realize it, after there was basically jack shit he could do about it. The words they'd exchanged are already out there in the world, there's no taking them back.

Well… except that he can scare the shit out of her and make it clear that _he_ is still the one in charge, and that _he_ will be the one doing the manipulating from here on out.

He tries to remember where Maria is. He's certain that she's still in her holster that has been tangled up with his checkered suit jacket, which had been tossed carelessly onto the floor somewhere by the Courier in her haste to undress him. He just has to stealthily slip out of the bed and find it…

He goes to lift the covers and there's an immediate quick click of metal behind him that makes him freeze. He nearly groans in disbelief. All he can hear is the pounding of his heart, which now seems loud enough to vibrate throughout the whole room. He'd never felt her move, never felt the bed shift, he doesn't _understand_. But he doesn't say a word.

It feels like a long time – too long – before the Courier finally speaks.

"How many people do you think would appreciate the irony of me killing you with your own gun?"

His breath catches when he feels the cool metal of a gun – of Maria – pressing into the back of his head, lightly stroking his hair and scalp.

"Only the ones that knew her," Benny replies steadily.

"And how many do you think will miss you?" she whispers, right by his ear. She's close enough that he could, in theory, elbow her in the face and bolt. He doesn't try to.

"Not a damn one," he breathes.

"Do you think there are people who would have missed _me_ , had you succeeded in killing me?" she asks.

He doesn't know much about her, because he never had a reason to care, but he considers her and what he's learned about her seemingly good morals when she'd vaguely explained to him the random acts of kindness she'd done for settlers on her way to Vegas. She's fairly young, no more than twenty-five if he had to guess. She has to have parents, siblings, and friends, somewhere out there.

"Yes," he says.

The Courier hums thoughtfully, and Benny is once more struck with the sense of _predator_ and _like-minded being_. Evidently, she's far more similar to him than he'd originally thought, so much so that she's a whole step ahead of him.

It's only little bit infuriating. Just a little.

"How did you know about the nectar?" Benny asks when her silence becomes too much for him.

"Is that what that was?" she asks, with genuine curiosity. "I actually didn't know. I wasn't sure about what you'd put in that drink, but I knew it couldn't have been good. I was expecting a sedative of some sort." She huffs out a laugh, and the motion makes Maria's barrel press harder against his head for a brief moment. "Honestly, I'm surprised you _didn't_ use one. It would have been much smarter, really."

"Wasn't in my arsenal at the time."

"Yet another one of your mistakes in this little game we've got going."

" _Sorry_ , pussycat," he sneers with a bite of sarcasm. "I'll do better next time, yeah? Make you proud."

"Be sure that you do," she purrs in his ear. The sensation send shivers down his spine, despite his attempts to stop the reaction. "Such a silly mistake to make for a man with dreams as big as yours. It could _cost_ you." This time, the added pressure of Maria against him is _definitely_ intentional. It's a solid reminder of his _mistake_.

"Will it cost me this time?" he asks softly, tentatively.

Another hum comes from behind him, in lieu of a response. It's deliberately thoughtful, this time, a _show_ of how much she's enjoying keeping him in suspense. She's _toying_ with him, just like she had been on the casino floor hours ago. His pussycat likes to play with her prey. He fucking hates that he's the prey.

"No," the Courier answers finally. "It won't. Because unlike you, I know the benefits and values of working with others. I don't _need_ you, really, but I know that I stand a better chance in all this _with_ you. You, on the other hand, need me, but don't seem to want to accept that."

"I _don't_ need you-," he starts indignantly before he's silenced by the gun pressing harder into his skull.

"Oh, but you _do_ ," she tells him. "If you really think you can just step in and usurp House and not meet any resistance from the _hundreds of others_ that live in or near Vegas," she laughs, sharp and bitter, "you are _sorely_ mistaken. You have a certain kind of power, Benny, but it's just not enough for something like this. Do you understand?"

He thinks about it again, as he had hours before. She is, more or less, right. She has assets that he wants, _needs,_ and he can't utilize them on his own. He sighs.

"Yes," he says, not without some reluctance.

"Good." The hard pressure of the gun is gone, and he hears the safety being flicked back before Maria is tossed without ceremony back onto the floor. He grumbles out a small protest at the treatment of his precious Maria. The Courier only laughs.

Once he's certain that there's no immediate danger, Benny flips over onto his back, turning his head to the side to look at the Courier. She's lying on her side facing him, watching him with the same thoughtful, calculating look that she'd been giving him the whole time they'd been together. They lay there in silence, close and unmoving. He suddenly gets the feeling that there's something strangely intimate about this moment, and he doesn't know how to feel about that. This _is_ , after all, the girl Benny has tried to kill on _two_ occasions now, and has just shared in the strangest form of pillow talk that he'd ever had the absolute _joy_ of experiencing.

"I'm tired," she mumbles eventually, voice gentle with the threat of on-coming sleep. "Do you trust us not to kill each other during the night?"

"Not at all," he admits immediately. Their relationship is not one of trust or of peace, and they both know it.

"Good. Neither do I. Now go to sleep."

She rolls over then, decidedly turning her back to him. He doesn't know if it's meant as an insult, or as a sort of show of trust, but he doesn't do anything about it. Her breathing takes a while to finally even out, but he can identify the exact moment when she finally goes under.

He doesn't go to sleep immediately, though. Too many thoughts fill and race through his mind, and above all of them, one thought shines the brightest. There's still something left for him, something that she thankfully hadn't picked from his altered-mindset.

No, he doesn't go to sleep. Instead, Benny does what he's always done best.

He begins plotting.


	5. Chapter 5

He wakes up in slow, lazy increments, and then all at once with a start.

Benny is alone in his big bed. His eyes haven't adjusted to the darkness that floods the room quite yet, but he can feel a distinct absence of heat from the left side of the bed. He sits up quickly, patting at the empty space next to him as though he'll still somehow find a lump beneath the messy covers. They're as flat and limp as ever, but still warm, and he looks frantically around the room, eyes searching in the dark for the shadowy form of the Courier. She is nowhere to be seen.

The possibilities race through his head: maybe she's waiting to kill him, maybe she's ratting him out, maybe she's _taken the chip and split_. He never told her where the chip was, exactly, but if there's one thing he will not take for granted again, it's that the Courier can be frighteningly resourceful when she wants to be.

He struggles to untangle himself from the mess of sheets and frustratedly throws them off as soon as he's free. When his feet hit the floor, his toes curl around something that's a different fabric from the dusty old carpet – his pants, he realizes. Scattered across the floor of his room is an array of clothing, including…

A dark blob is crumpled on the floor by his twin dressers, and though he can't make out the color or distinct shape through the darkness, he knows what it is. She has to still be in his suite, then; otherwise she's gallivanting around the Strip naked.

It's only then that Benny notices the little sliver of faint, orangey light peeking out from beneath the closed bedroom door.

He scrambles to find all of his clothes and tug them back on, but his shirt is nowhere to be found so he settles for going without.

He opens the bedroom door carefully, cautiously, unknowing of what could be waiting on the other side for him. The little sitting room is filled with a warm, orange glow and he now hears the crackle of burning wood and flame. He panics for an entire second, his paranoid mind still racing with possibilities, before he swings the door open – with more force than he means to – and realizes that she's only taken the liberty of igniting the fireplace.

She doesn't turn to look at him, from where she's standing in front of the fireplace. She only takes a sip from the glass of scotch cupped between her hands and continues to stare intently at the flames. She looks utterly lost in her own thoughts – or just _really_ enraptured by the fire – but he knows she's very aware of his presence.

"That's my shirt," he comments, shoulders slackening. He doesn't know why she gets under his skin as much as she does, but it bothers the hell out of him.

"I borrowed it." She tilts her head to look at him, raising a brow as if to say, _problem?_ No, he doesn't really have a problem with it; as long as she hasn't skipped out on him, he's willing to share his clothes for the time being. It helps that he can appreciate the sight, but he doesn't say that.

He wanders over to his personal bar, drumming his fingers idly against the surface as he checks the clock that sits on the far-end of the counter. "It's late."

"Or early."

"Po-tay-to, po-tah-to. What're you doing up, so _early,_ then?"

"Does it matter?"

"Not really," he lies. He can think of a few reasons why it might matter to him, but he's not about to divulge any of them. "I was just wondering if you _always_ wake up at two in the morning to stare at fire."

"Do you think I'd be up if I could help it?" she snaps, glaring at him over her shoulder for all of two seconds. She's haloed by the glow of the flames in a way that makes her look molten and _fierce_. It reminds him of that dangerous _look_ in her eyes that he'd seen before. When all he gives her is a shrug in response, she sighs and looks forward again, away from him. "Nightmare. Normally the people I sleep with don't notice it when I leave." She says it like it's _his_ fault.

"Normally the people you sleep with aren't _me_ ," Benny retorts, for lack of anything better to say. Of all the reasons he could think of, something as simple as a _nightmare_ definitely wasn't on that list.

"Thank god for that," she calls over her shoulder, and he lets out a small, breathy laugh at that.

They fall into a small silence again. The Courier is content to continue watching the flames consume the charring wood, and he's considering whether or not he really feels like exploring this new part of her that she's sharing with him for whatever reason. The decision doesn't take very long to make.

"So you get a nightmare and decide to cope by," he picks up the nearly empty bottle that's been left on the bar counter, passing his thumb over the label, "drinking all my scotch?"

She raises her glass and taps at the side with her fingernail in confirmation. The scotch glows with the reflection of the fire, glistening fiercely in its amber color.

She laughs, though it's largely without humor. "Call it genetics."

He doesn't know what to say to that, either.

He stares at the bottle and considers pouring himself a glass, but quickly decides against it. He's had enough mind-altering substances for one night.

He could really go for a smoke, though. He remembers that she'd returned his lighter to him and fishes around in his pockets for it. There's a convenient pack of cigarettes on the counter next to an ashtray. He pops a cigarette out, holds it between his teeth, and lights it up. A long, deep drag truly does wonders after such a stressfully _weird_ day.

Benny takes his lighter and his pack and meanders around the couch to stand with her. She shakes her head when he wordlessly pops a cigarette out of the pack in offering.

"I don't smoke."

"You'll drown yourself in my scotch but you won't smoke?"

"That's right."

On his next inhale he tries to collect as much smoke as he can just so he can blow it obnoxiously into the Courier's face. The smoke billows around her, hazy and gray with light bits of warmth from the fire. She coughs – a little more dramatically than he thinks is necessary – and glares.

A thought occurs to him, one that he'd had before but hadn't the mind to ask at the time.

"What would you have done if I hadn't agreed to this… whatever this is?" he asks.

She smiles, a faint, soft, barely-there thing that he wouldn't have seen if he hadn't been watching her intently. "I would have killed you."

He barks out a laugh at the unwavering confidence with which she says it. "Is that so?"

"Part of me wanted to. Revenge, and all that. Truthfully, I was hoping it wouldn't come to that. But you wouldn't have given me much of a choice either way, right?"

"I'm a fighter."

"And so am I." She reaches down next to her, picking up an object that had been hidden behind a throw pillow. She holds it up for him to see.

"You brought a knife to a gunfight?" he asks blandly; he hadn't seen the knife once, hadn't even seen a single hint that she might have had it on her. It's a combat knife, tucked into a small leather sheath with a looping strap connected to it. He puts two and two together fast and realizes it'd been on her thigh the whole time. She'd probably thrown it off as fast as she could when they were undressing each other so he wouldn't see it.

"It was easier than smuggling in a gun," she says with a shrug. "It's coated with a mild paralytic agent, though. I counted on my being able to evade you for as long as it would take to kick in. Once it did, I'd have more time to figure out what to do with you, but like I said," she throws the knife back down onto the chair she'd pulled it from and looks him in the eye, "I was hoping it wouldn't come to that."

He stares at her for a long, hard moment.

"You're a weird one, but you seem like a gal after my own heart," he tells her, and she makes a small snorting sound of disbelief that he can't help but to grin a little at. "If we hadn't gotten off on the wrong foot, I might have even liked you."

"And by 'the wrong foot', you mean if you hadn't tried to kill me?"

"Yeah."

"You're a real motherfucker," she bites back, leveling him with another one of her piercing glares. "Did you know that?"

Benny blows another, smaller cloud of smoke at her and grins. "I've been told."

She coughs more and flails her hand around the air around her, desperately attempting to clear the smoke from her headspace as fast as she can. He wonders why she doesn't just move away altogether, and then he figures that she's just as stubborn as he is. She won't give up so easily, not in any way. He can admire that, at least.

"So, baby, I can't help but notice that you know my name," he starts, and this time his exhale of smoke is mercifully not aimed at her, "but I don't know yours."

"I'm…," she pauses with a frown, "I'm the Courier.

He rolls his eyes. "Your _real_ name. Before I shot you. If you can even remember it." He thinks maybe she doesn't even know. It makes him feel a bit guilty when he thinks about it more. Just a little bit.

"Of course I _know_ ," she snaps, and suddenly he doesn't feel all that guilty again. "Did you bother to check the delivery order?"

"I did."

"It was on there."

"Was it?" Benny remembers looking over the flimsy folded-up sheet of paper while he had waited for her to regain consciousness, but he had only been concerned about one thing that it had said:

_This package contains:  
One (1) Oversized Poker Chip, composed of Platinum._

After that, he'd thrown the paper back into the bag she'd been carrying, which was then unceremoniously dumped into the grave that the Khans were still digging. He doesn't doubt that he'd seen or skimmed over the field where her name was, but it was something he certainly didn't care about the time, so he didn't retain that information. In all technicality, he shouldn't have to care now, but here they are. Life's _fun_ like that.

"Yes. I guess I shouldn't be surprised," the Courier says, reading his expression and ultimately unperturbed. Benny waits expectantly for her to continue, but as the minutes pass she seems keen on simply watching the fire.

"Are you going to tell me?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"I don't really _want_ to know," he says, "but I'd _like_ to."

She hums, and falls back into silence. For a moment, he thinks she's just not going give him an answer one way or the other.

"Ask me again if you ever _want_ to know," she says finally, punctuating the sentence with a conclusive sip from her glass. Her glass is nearing empty again – he doesn't quite know how many times it's done that tonight – and he goes to retrieve the bottle from the bar. "Until then, it doesn't matter."

He frowns. "Pretty girl like you must have a pretty name," he tries, topping off her drink for her.

She nods her thanks to him, and with the barest of smiles says into her glass, "Empty flattery, while appreciated, will get you nowhere."

"Can't blame a guy for trying," he says, not discouraged. He'll figure it out one way or another; there's got to be plenty of people out there that know her name. It's not so much a matter of necessity, but now that she's purposefully keeping it from him, it's a matter of _winning_ , and Benny could really use a win right about now. "Guess I'll just have to keep calling you _pussycat_."

"Please don't."

He grins. "Tough shit, pussycat."

He sets the bottle down on the coffee table behind them without bothering to put the cap back on in preparation for the next time her glass empties. Despite his initial dismay, he's now hoping that she'll polish the bottle off herself and that the scotch – her apparent go-to cure for her problems – will hit her hard enough that she'll sleep like a rock for the rest of the night. He doesn't want to have to deal with what she might do if she catches him as he's trying to make his getaway.

They fall back into a silence that is far more easy than the previous ones, the air filled with smoke and the cracks of the burning logs in the fireplace and the nonsensical whispers of their respective musings, and he finds himself staring at the fire like she had been, entranced but the dance and color of the whipping flames. His mind drifts as he watches and takes slow drags off of his dwindling cigarette.

"Whatever you're going to do," the Courier says steadily, slowly, but so suddenly that the broken silence yanks Benny out from the depths of his thoughts, "I don't think you should do it."

He's getting _real_ fucking tired of her _knowing_ what he's up to.

"What do _you_ know?" he asks a little too defensively, because holy shit he just wants _one thing_ to remain hidden to her, just _one thing_ that gives him more of an advantage than her, and he is going to be _pissed_ if that's another one of the things she _magically_ knows about.

"Not enough," she admits with a small frown. The lack of knowledge troubles her, but he lets out a silent sigh of relief.

He smashes the tail end of his cigarette out into the ashtray on the coffee table and slowly comes up behind her. He touches her shoulders – through the fabric of his own too-large shirt – softly, hesitantly, just to see if she'll let him. When she doesn't make any move to get away or bat him off, he moves her mane of dark hair out of the way and gently starts kneading her shoulders with the pads of his fingers, digging in _just right_ so that her head lolls back just the slightest bit. The little things to butter her up and make her less likely to _meddle_ , although he's not so sure that she could be so easily distracted.

"That's probably for the better." He says it as though it should console her, and she makes a sound that says she's not being fooled. He didn't really expect her to be, anyway.

"Agree to disagree," she replies with a blissful sigh when Benny's fingers travel forward to work at her collarbone area. "But I still don't think you should."

"You're not going to try harder to stop me?" he ventures hopefully, no longer caring about the fact that she knows he's up to something. She doesn't seem all that alarmed, to be honest, and he thinks that she's really going to let him do what he wants. After an entire night of the Courier fucking literally _everything_ up, he's a bit surprised.

"I don't know that I'd be able to," she admits softly, "or that I really should. But I at least hope that, after everything that we've talked about today, you have enough sense to know that you have to be _very_ careful in everything you do."

His fingers pause where they've begun making their way up her neck. He considers telling her, for a moment. He really does.

"Don't you worry that pretty head of yours, pussycat," he says instead. She makes a dismayed noise, though that could easily be due to the sudden stop of his massage. He reaches an arm around and gently lays it on her forehead, pushing back the locks of hair that strategically cover the evidence of what he's done to her – Benny may not remember many of the minor, insignificant details of their initial encounter, but he hasn't missed how her the part of her hair has switched sides since then. She squirms in his grasp, harshly slapping his hand away from her head, and he relents without protest. He lightly nips at the base of her neck before kissing the very same spot in apology. "It's been through enough already, don't you think?"

He expects yet another bitter comment that it's his fault, or some snide remark about how head-trauma is all he's given her, or some sort of annoying dark humor in response. Instead, she simply murmurs, "Just try not to get yourself killed. You're of far more use to me alive than dead."

 

* * *

 

He's only gotten a few hours of sleep by the time he wakes again, but thankfully this time is not because the Courier has slipped out of the bed. This time is because it's _his_ turn to slip out and away, before the sun has a chance to crest over the dusty horizon. Given the situation he's about to throw himself into, his lack of sleep certainly is not an ideal circumstance, but he has no choice.

He knows for a fact that she won't stop working now that the ball is rolling. The Courier is a force to be reckoned with, someone who puts their mind to something and gets it _done_. Benny is proof enough of that; he never wanted to work with her, or for her to _live_ , and yet here he is, in a partnership with her that still doesn't make all that much sense to him, this time lacking the false promises and the lies – well, most of them, anyway.

No, the Courier doesn't stop until she gets what she wants. Hell, a bullet to the brain hadn't even been enough to do more than inconvenience her.

But he'll make sure that she doesn't follow him this time around, for her benefit as well as his. She may have forced his hand in her sudden and unexpected involvement, but this part of the plan is still entirely his own, and _he_ has to be the one to find out what was in that bunker and, if possible, utilize it for his own purposes before she can. Partnership or not, this is his discovery that _his_ precious time was spent making, and that makes it his privilege over hers.

He has to act, and he has to act now.

Dressing as quickly and quietly as possible, he double and triple-checks that he has everything he needs for his journey before he makes his way towards the door in the far corner of his room – behind it, Yes Man, his stolen Securitron, his own personal ace-in-the-hole, has been waiting the entire time, mercifully quiet. He opens the door and is blinded for a moment by Yes Man's joyful, flickering screen. He quickly gestures for Yes Man not to say a goddamn thing, lest the robot's obnoxiously loud voice wake the Courier, because while she's agreed not to stop him, in his experience it's a hell of a lot easier to bail when they're still sleeping.

He looks over his shoulder to the dark form of the body curled up in his bed, a mess of black hair peeking over the edge of the covers she's burrowed herself into. Maybe it's the lack of sleep, maybe it's his downright _bewilderment_ when it comes to how exactly he should approach his new relationship with the Courier, but Benny decides in that moment to write a note for her, instructing her to not worry for him and promising to return to her. It's left on the nightstand for her to find, and he knows that the moment she wakes up and realizes he's gone, she'll see it.

He watches her sleep for a moment longer when he's hit, suddenly, with how oddly easy and _domestic_ this whole situation seems to be, when it started out as anything but. He frowns to himself when he thinks, for the umpteenth time, about just how _weird_ this turn of events is, but he doesn't have the time to really dwell on it.

He's got a game to win, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! This was actually really fun to rewrite, and I think it's a lot better than the original version was. Thank you so much for then all of the kudos, and don't forget to check out my other works!
> 
> Additionally, if you'd like to see where this all leads, check out _The Illusion of Control_ , which picks up from Benny's trip to the Fort.
> 
> EDIT: If you'd like to see art I've drawn for this chapter, [click here!](http://vulpesatomicus.tumblr.com/post/144949441515/some-art-i-doodled-for-my-courierbenny-fic)


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